Eating Poetry

Signs on a Hand Grenade

her stretch marks are signs
on a hand grenade
perhaps her father used to be
a soldier who swore and drank
and perhaps these zigzagging lines
are simply traces of his military tank

she moves, whispering a silent ‘no’
as I bow down to drink her sweat
seeping into her war stripes

her stretch marks are grooves
on a hand grenade
I could trace them drunk
and stumbling through a dark room